


know better

by sky_reid



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Asexuality, Crushes, Developing Relationship, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Mentions of Sex, Mild Angst, Mutual Pining, Neighbors, No Dialogue, Pining, and mentions of dom/sub, don't judge me pls, idk man idk, literally this is just pining and nothing else, louis is a bartender for some reason, oh oh right, this is the most pretentious thing i've ever written
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-11
Updated: 2016-07-11
Packaged: 2018-07-19 00:05:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,403
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7336633
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sky_reid/pseuds/sky_reid
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>in the two years since harry moved to doncaster louis has gained a good friend, a hopeless crush and a massive headache.</p>
            </blockquote>





	know better

**Author's Note:**

> i decided to finish this and post it anyway just in case even though i'm ages late
> 
> i don't know what this is but i hope you like it? god help me

Louis can pinpoint the exact moment he fell in love with Harry Styles.

He was standing on the platform, waiting for a train that’d been announced late twice already. It was raining, fat drops drumming against the plexiglass above him and falling heavily on the pavement in front of him. Harry was on the other side of the rails, pacing back and forth with headphones in his ears. He took one of them out when Benny approached him stumblingly, listened intently when Benny spoke to him, didn’t even make a face at the smell Louis knew from personal experience had to be assaulting his senses when Benny leaned in. He frowned and nodded, pulled his wallet out and handed Benny a few coins. It was stupid, really; Harry was new to Doncaster but not so new that he hadn’t met Benny before and it wasn’t exactly hard to guess what the town drunk who reeked of alcohol at all times of the day would do with the money. Still, Harry watched him walk away without a trace of regret on his face.

Louis’s told that story countless times over the last two years, to the uproarious laughter of his friends and the cooing sympathies of his family and the unrepentant shrugs from Harry, and he’s yet to find someone who looks at it the same way he does. Because he’d spoken to Harry before that, poured him drinks at work and run into him at the cereal aisle in the store and watched a game or two with him when Niall hosted viewing parties for the entire town, and he’d known about Harry’s endless optimism and determined positivity, but it wasn’t until that day that he truly understood just how unshakeable Harry’s faith in people was.

They all watch the reel of Louis’ memories and see a young boy, inexperienced and naïve and wasteful; Louis watched it all happen right in front of him and he saw someone who believed in second chances and better tomorrows and the good in everyone. The world is a terrible and scary place, full of dark corners and sharp edges and monsters hiding in the shadows; Harry is soft and open and vulnerable and he dares to walk through it with nothing but an armour made of hope and a light lit by dreams. Louis can’t imagine anything braver than that.

He remembers every single detail about that day, from the lingering bitterness of tea on his tongue to the smell of a cheese pastry Mrs. Glenn was ripping to bite-sized pieces to his right to every shade of grey of the roiling clouds to the whisper of the wind in his ears to the gentle flutter right underneath his sternum. He remembers the damp strand of hair that had fallen out of Harry’s bun to curl against the back of his neck and the urge to twirl it around his finger; he remembers the pink of Harry’s cheek bitten by the cold, the glint of gold buttons on his navy blue coat, the rhythmic tap of his glittery boots against the concrete. He remembers not being able to look away.

It’s all been downhill since then. Harry would sit at the bar in front of him, all dimpled smiles and expressive hands as he told a story that had no point, and Louis would fall for him just a little more. He’d text a bad joke in the middle of the night when Louis was just settling into bed, and Louis would feel his heart grow a little bit bigger. He’d let Phoebe braid spring flowers into his hair and Daisy paint his lips red, and Louis would feel something change inside him irreversibly for the better.

He’d sit next to Louis, press their sides together, trace gentle fingers over the lines of Louis’ tattoos; he’d make popcorn for movie nights and bake cupcakes for birthdays and make his bed for two when he knew Louis was going out drinking; he’d laugh at Louis’ jokes and fight with him about politics and help him come up with new ways to make his friends’ lives difficult. He’d take pieces of Louis away and leave bits of himself in return, he’d burrow under Louis’ skin and carve out a place for himself somewhere inside Louis’ ribcage, and Louis would let him, encourage him even, until Harry was as much a part of his life as breathing.

The whole thing is a bit inconvenient really. Louis doesn’t mean to be dramatic, but being in love with his best friend is hard, harder still when every time he feels there’s even the slightest chance that he might fall out of love, he thinks back to that day and he’s reeled right in all over again. It’s hard that he puts his arm around Harry’s shoulders when they’re watching scary movies, that he buries his nose in Harry’s hair and smells it every time they hug, that he dances with Harry under the pulsing lights of the only decent club in town; it’s hard that he knows Harry’s family as well as his own, that he’s slept in Harry’s bed, that he’s felt Harry’s arms around him, that he knows the gentle brush of Harry’s lips on the back of his neck. It’s hard that he hasn’t walked down the street with Harry’s hand in his or been drunk on Harry’s kisses or fallen asleep to whispered words he hasn’t told anyone else before.

It’s hard that he’s had it all in bits and pieces and whiffs and tastes, but hasn’t quite had any of it at all.

When Louis was six, Bob&Eve’s IceCream Parlour opened around the corner. They served the best pistachio ice cream Louis had ever tasted. It was the only thing he ever ordered and he ordered it every day. It was the only thing he wanted to eat at all. His mum had warned him that was a bad idea, only let him have ice cream after he’d eaten lunch and always gave him just enough money for two scoops. So, naturally, when Mr and Mrs Payne took them all out for Liam’s birthday, Louis had all the pistachio ice cream he could fit into himself and then some; he ate so much of it that he was sick later. After that, he decided he didn’t like pistachio ice cream anymore. The ice cream was still the same, the same colour and the same smell and Louis would wager the same taste as well; Louis just told himself he didn’t want it anymore.

He wishes he could somehow do the same with Harry, spend too much time with him and have too much of him and get sick. He wishes he could decide not to be in love with Harry anymore, move on with nothing but fond memories and a vague awareness of his presence and pick someone else instead, the way he now barely even knows that it’s pistachio ice cream in the tub all the way to the left because he orders mint chocolate chip or lime instead.

Except that he’s lying. Except that it’s easy. Except that being in love with Harry is the easiest thing he’s ever done in his life, as painless as falling asleep, as simple as blinking, as natural as breathing. And Louis doesn’t know how to stop. He isn’t sure that he really wants to. For all his complaining (of which he does a lot), he wouldn’t trade having Harry in any way that he can, not for anything.

The thing is, he’s pretty sure Harry is the one.

Louis’ always been a romantic. He thinks he gets it from his mum. When he was little she’d read to him, fairy tales and fables from her old books where there was always a prince and a princess and they always only lived happily ever after once they had each other; she made up stories after they ran out of books, longwinded fantasies of romance that Louis only later realised were embellished retellings of her life. It’s hard not to want that when he grew up hearing about it. He figured out pretty early on that he might not always be looking for a princess, but believing in one true love, one destined soulmate, a person that will be his home and his future and his happily ever after, well, that’s still pretty much a given for Louis.

He thought he was in love for the first time when he was nine. Allison Hartley sat in front of him at school, read during lunch breaks and wore her dark hair in plaits tied with red ribbons. He gave her flowers once. She was the one he’d marry, he told his mum.

Then there was Julie Shore some crushes and some years later; she baked cookies for the entire class and smiled at everyone in the streets. Without her tutoring Louis would definitely have failed geography. Or at least that’s what he told his mum; the truth is that they spent more time making out on his bed than actually studying. Louis didn’t tell anyone at the time, but he was sure they’d be one of those couples that knew each other their whole lives and celebrated their eightieth anniversary. She moved to Germany without even breaking up with him and he swore he’d never date again.

By the time he was seventeen and Andrew Harris was asking him out he’d pretty much forgotten all about her. He can’t even remember why he agreed to that one, but he stuck around for the sex (not even particularly good sex, not that he knew that at the time). He told everyone who’d listen that they loved each other, wore their relationship as a badge of honour whenever anyone dared comment on it. Then Andrew moved away for university and Louis went from picking up shifts at The Stingy Cook to bartending for the Horans and it was suddenly a lot easier to find someone interested when he was pouring drinks for half the town and they all finally started seeing him as adult enough to flirt with.

He thought Elle would be the one he raised kids with and he lived with David for months and he almost asked Kelly to marry him and the first time he slept with Zayn he could’ve sworn the connection between them was the real deal and—

Well, the point is that he’s been wrong about this kind of thing before. More than once. Sometimes because he didn’t know better and sometimes because he didn’t want to know better. But this thing with Harry, this thing that doesn’t even really exist outside of his head, it’s different. It’s real. It’s like dreaming about getting a skateboard for Christmas and finding an Anti Hero under the tree. His whole life has been the longest advent countdown in history and Harry is the grand prize that exceeds expectations, the thing he’s wanted all along, whose pale copies and subpar versions he’s practised on. If his future consists of meaningless sex and relationships with an expiration date to balance out the tingling light feeling he gets in his tummy from platonic almost-dates and blurred lines between friendly teasing and hopeful flirting with Harry, then that’s fine. If that means watching Harry find happiness with someone else, then he’ll deal with that too. Because Harry’s it for him and Louis will take anything over nothing.

(Not to be dramatic and all.)

He’s not pining. He has no reason to; he sees Harry every day, talks to him all the time, knows him better than anyone. So. He’s not pining.

He wakes up in time to catch Harry’s show on the radio even when he had a late night; he sits on the kitchen counter with a cup of tea in his hands while his mum goes about making breakfast and he laughs at all the deadpan jokes that go right over her head. She’s given up on sending him significant looks that he always ignores anyway.

His phone rings to Harry’s drunken karaoke rendition of _Oops I Did it Again_. He recorded it at Niall’s birthday party. They’d closed the pub down and emptied out the entire bottom shelf, drinking until they could barely stand; then someone (Louis’ pretty sure it was him) came up with the brilliant idea of singing the worst nineties hits they could think of. Louis recorded them all, intending at the time to use the undoubtedly hilarious results as ammo in a future prank war, or maybe as a part of his eventual best man speech; of course, in the morning, he barely remembered anything. He lost a bet to Niall a few weeks later, had to hand over his phone for a couple of hours and ended up with his menu in Chinese, Niall’s face on all his backgrounds, several useless apps and a new ringtone. It started out as a joke, but it’s months later and he hasn’t switched to vibration yet because the truth is that even with the slurring and the missed notes and the messed up lyrics Harry was good. He was very good. And Louis was weak for the sound of his voice. He lets his phone ring longer these days and tries not to think about that time Harry told him how he used to dream of singing for a living (he tries not to think about the time Harry told him all about auditioning for The X Factor, how he got so nervous he threw up in the loo and decided he wasn’t quite cut out for fame, or about the fact that it happened the same year as the third time Louis wanted to audition and his mum’s car broke down on the way, or the same year Niall tried and didn’t get through, or the same year Zayn slept through his alarm and was too late to make the auditions, or the same year Liam got sick two days before he was supposed to go on and couldn’t speak let alone sing on a stage; sometimes he can’t shake this feeling that they were all meant to be something else, that their lives were meant to turn out differently).

Harry comes to the pub every night when Louis is working. He always orders the same thing, a glass of white wine that he sips on slowly. Sometimes he asks Louis to refill it, other times he only finishes it off when Louis is about to start wiping down the tables. They always leave together, even though walking Harry home means taking the roundabout way back for Louis.

When they end up sleeping together, cuddled up under a blanket for an evening of movie marathons and popcorn or drunk after a few too many at one of Niall’s parties or just plain too lazy to move, Harry always falls asleep first. Louis stays up for as long as he can, watching him, running fingers through his hair and soothing hands down his sides. He watches Harry a lot, the sprawl of his long legs over the sofa and the press of his lips to the rim of a glass and the fluid way his hands move when he talks, but it’s different when he’s asleep; there’s something peaceful about him, something calming and almost ethereal. And then there are those times when Louis thumbs away some drool that gathers in the corner of Harry’s mouth or falls asleep to the rhythmic sound of his snoring. Somehow, he doesn’t like those times any less.

Zayn still calls all the time. It’s nice to hear his voice and remember the sound of his laugh; they text all the time and Louis takes the train down to Paris whenever he has a few days free and isn’t too short on money, but it’s not quite the same as it was back when they were sixteen and living in each other’s pockets. Louis misses him, sometimes so fiercely that it takes his breath away. They talk about all the inane crap of everyday life, about Zayn’s latest shoot or how underwhelming the Eiffel Tower gets after a while, about Louis’ plans for the weekend or how hard it is to keep the pub running when the Horans are away visiting family for the week. Eventually, though, it always ends up with Louis talking about Harry for as long as Zayn will let him. Zayn ribs him about it mercilessly every time.

And maybe all that together sounds like he’s pining. But he’s not. Really. He has no reason to.

Liam figures it wouldn't work out anyway. He thinks they're good as friends, thinks they're in love, thinks they'd probably have the best honeymoon period ever. He just also thinks Louis likes sex too much to give it up. The worst part is that Louis can't really prove him wrong; it's not like he's dated a lot of asexual people before. He's willing to try to make it work though. He thinks that counts for something.

Besides, he figures Liam's looking at a black-and-white stripe print where there's an abstract aquarelle in technicolour; it's overly simplistic of him to assume Harry isn't interested in _having_ sex just because he's ace. Louis knows for a fact Harry’s slept with both men and women before, that he’s done it because he felt like he had to try it to really _know_ , because he was convinced he owed his partners, but also because he wanted to and because he liked it. He compares sex in a relationship to bubble wrap around a gift – fun and always a good bonus and definitely not necessary or particularly important. He says listening to other people talk about how they feel about people they like, about sex and love and attraction and want and need, reminds him of being five years old, sneaking cooling cookies from a plate in the kitchen and overhearing his mother on the phone with a friend – it’s intriguing and fun, but ultimately one-sided and incomprehensible no matter how many times he unsuccessfully tries to recreate it. Even so, Harry's quick to play the innuendo game, flirts with everyone as if it comes naturally to him and seems perfectly comfortable with any kind of conversation about sex. When he talks about it, he talks like someone who has plenty of experience and a very good grip on what they like. His understanding of sex isn’t as black and white as Liam makes it out to be.

Louis thinks about it sometimes, about Harry underneath him, soft and hard all at once; about touching him, kissing him, feeling him naked and sweaty and writhing under his hands. He thinks about taking it slow, taking in every inch of skin he exposes, covering it with gentle touches and soft kisses; he thinks about looking into Harry’s eyes as he pushes in and holding his hand when he comes.

Less often, he thinks about how much Harry enjoys doing things for others and how beautifully he reacts to being praised and all the ways in which he could use that to his advantage; he thinks about his fingers tight around Harry’s wrists and his hand in Harry’s hair and his teeth sinking into Harry’s neck. There’s an underlying need to it, an urge to claim Harry as his, to mark him until everyone knows and it comes like poison at the worst of times, spreading from the sting of jealousy somewhere in his chest when he sees someone else’s hand on Harry’s arm, someone else’s body pressed up against his, someone else smiling at him like he’s the entire world. He never says anything because it’s not his place to have an opinion on what Harry does and with whom, but he does maybe occasionally faux-casually slam the drinks too hard in front of him or sidle up to him a bit too close. Even then though, it’s not the control and the power over Harry that he craves, not to watch him _break_ , not really; it’s about the trust he knows Harry would have to put in him, the fact that he’d do so willingly and happily, it’s about putting him back together afterwards.

Somehow it always comes back to that – to the connection and the intimacy, to the peaceful bliss of lying together in the hazy pleasure of the aftermath. He doesn’t know if it’s _because_ Harry’s said more than once that that’s what he likes best about sex, but he does know that it means they’re not as incompatible as Liam and Zayn and Lottie and the voice in the back of his head seem to believe.

Half the town already thinks they’re together anyway. It’s a small place and people talk and they talk more when they’re drinking. Everyone wants to know everyone’s business; with a drink in their hand they all assume Louis does too. So Louis always knows all the gossip. He knows what they think about him and he knows what they think about him and Harry; he’s pretty sure he was there when most of the big rumours started. They say he and Harry are dating, that they’re keeping it secret because Harry’s family is homophobic, that he’d lose his job if the word got out. They say they’ve seen them walking around hand-in-hand or making out behind a tree in the park, that a friend of a friend overheard one of Louis’ sisters talking about them, that a second cousin twice removed swears he knows something.

Louis isn’t sure what to make of that. It’s not the first time there are persistent rumours about him floating around, he’s used to that, that’s not really a problem. The problem is that it makes him think.

He knows he’s not particularly subtle. He’s never been good at hiding his feelings one way or another and he hasn’t tried very hard around Harry either. If everyone around him can see it, then it should be no problem for Harry to. (He tries very hard not to think about what everyone who talks about them behind their backs sees on Harry’s side, if they see the same smiles and looks they see on him.) If Harry knows how he feels, then there’s a reason he hasn’t reacted to it.

Harry has to know. By his own admission, he’s terrible at figuring out when someone is trying to ask him out, he often can’t tell the difference between platonic and romantic and things go over his head all the time, but he must know _this_ , he must hear all the things people say about them, must see the way Louis looks at him, must feel the difference in how Louis treats him. He must know all the questions Louis doesn’t ask. And, Louis figures, no answer is answer enough. So he doesn’t say anything either.

(Harry doesn’t know. He doesn’t have the faintest idea.

If he did, he would have kissed Louis that one night months and months ago when they lay on their backs in the soft grass of the riverbank and watched the stars dance in the inky sky as they passed the lit joint between them with tingling fingers that brushed together too casually. Sometimes when they fall asleep in the same bed, he wakes up first and traces the planes of Louis’ face, trying to commit them to memory in case he’s not there to see the lines time will etch into them. Once, he left his umbrella at home on purpose so he’d have to share Louis’ and they’d walk down the streets with their sides pressed together; that was before he realised he didn’t need to look for an excuse to get close. He’s oddly uncomfortable watching Louis blatantly flirt with others because it makes him think about every time Louis treated him the same way and the implication went right over his head, but he likes hearing about the one-night-stands and casual friends with benefits because it makes him think Louis doesn’t necessarily connect sex with love which in turn fuels ill-advised dreams of something more between them, something permanent and fulfilling for the both of them. A significant part of him, the same part that buzzes and blurs when Louis pulls on his hair a little too harshly or shoves at him a little too roughly when they’re fighting over the good seat at the sofa or tells him what to do and praises him when he does, thinks sex with Louis wouldn’t be a one-sided conversation or a monochrome abstract in a fancy frame and not just because Louis has a reputation; he knows Louis would treat him right, but more than that, he knows he’d enjoy Louis’ pleasure. He also knows that sounds a bit creepy.

He’s been in love exactly three times in his life. It’s never felt the way it does with Louis.)

(Louis finds all this out one night in November. Harry’s visiting Gemma in London and he’s drunk when he calls. Louis’ working, leaves Niall on his own behind the bar so he can answer even though they’re in the middle of a rush. He sits on the stairs out back and goes through three cigarettes with the phone pressed to his ear and Harry’s deep voice interspersed with happy giggles coursing through him; it’s fucking freezing outside and his hands are shaking by the time Gemma’s laugh comes through the speaker right before the line goes dead, but all he really feels is the hope blooming in his chest, squeezing his heart and weaving between his ribs.

The next morning when Harry steps off the train, Louis kisses him. He stands on his tiptoes and twirls a stray curl around his finger and listens to the rain fall around them and kisses him. He thinks if Benny approached him right now and asked him for a few quid, he’d pull out a hundred without a second thought because sometimes hoping isn’t pointless and sometimes people make the right choices and sometimes the world is a good place; sometimes it’s the smell of petrichor in the air and the soft golden light at the seams of the clouds and the gentle press of Harry’s lips against his.)


End file.
